Qwark was almost at the barricade when he finally saw the damage of the storm; he couldn't power down to check for survivors, the skiff would sink if it slowed down too much. He just had to hope the remaining volunteers had already-
He spied Ratchet, waist high and stuck in the mud, now quicksand. Ratchet had already put on his O2 mask, thankfully, but if Ratchet got suck there and the mud dried…
It would be like getting trapped in concrete. Qwark had seen it firsthand on Florana; heck, it had been how he'd caught most of his food back then. Why hunt when the very earth could do it for you?
Qwark weighed his options. He couldn't circle around Ratchet slow enough to hoist the Lombax out without loosing the skiff, but he could wade in the quicksand safely on his own.
Ah well, there went a few thousand bolts as Qwark hit the killswitch and jumped off, not even bothering to watch as the speeder was slowly eaten by the bubbling mud.
"Ratchet, if you can hear me, and you'd better with those ears of yours, stop moving. The more you struggle, the faster you sink."
Ratchet's ears perk up as Qwark's voice echoes over the roar of the wind, and he lifted his head just in time to see the big lug hopping right out of his skiff, which promptly sunk into the quicksand. Crap! Ratchet considered he could have saved it with his tether if he just had a few more seconds.
Qwark didn't await a reply. He couldn't remember the calculations about downward pressure or fluid dynamics, but he did remember something about a Jimmy Neutron's law of force. With a mighty groan, he bent forward and ripped Ratchet from the mud, a squelch as Ratchet was pulled free, his rainboots still stuck as Qwark trudged up yet again for the PDC.
Ratchet had barely time to grab his wrench and save it from a watery grave before he was slung, shivering, gasping and soaked, over Qwark's shoulder like a damsel just liberated from distress. Ratchet didn't even seem to want to struggle; normally he hated being lifted clear in the air from one of Qwark's bear hugs. It's not fun being carried, but if it puts more distance between him and that quicksand, he'd allow it.
"First thing we do when we get you to the center- a shower. You smell like a drowned rat," Qwark shouted over the howl of the tempest as the waters rose around him. Of course he was going to waste some of his energy chastising Ratchet- if the fuzzball died on him, he'd be up the proverbial creek without a paddle the next time some Cthulu-esque monster came knocking on his door (sadly a regular occurrence). Ratchet wasn't going down from a stupid rainstorm. Qwark held the shivering wet Lombax a little tighter, pushing on ahead.
"We'll deal with reconstruction after everything settles, yeah, Cadet?"
"Hey, you're no bed of roses yourself," Ratchet retorts. Qwark's right about one thing, though: Everything else can wait until the storm has passed and the water goes down.
What took Qwark twenty minutes the last time around ran closer to an hour this time. The wind was harsh, the rain a mess, and visibility was nonexistent. Qwark shifted Ratchet from a shoulder to a fireman's carry to keep Ratchet- a desert creature by evolution and not designed for prolonged cold or wet- from losing any more body heat, curling him close to his heart for warmth and bending forward to shield Ratchet (and himself) from the wind.
At any other time, Ratchet would object to being carried around. But it was more practical for now, since Qwark's strides are naturally longer, and on the ground, he would just hold the guy back. The sharp wind and pounding rain are absolute murder for him, Qwark's right about that. He's shivering so much he probably couldn't walk right now anyway.
Qwark thanked Orvus for their O2 masks- it kept the wind and rain directly off his face while helping him breathe evenly, and he figured Ratchet would have been unconscious right now without his own.
Forgetting about everything but trudging one foot in front of the other, Qwark made his way back to safety, depositing Ratchet at the entry before going inside; the Planetary Defense Center couldn't have appeared through the haze of rain soon enough.
"Can you walk? Let's… find a shower and some hot food. I need to evacuate about twenty pounds of mud from the ol' heroic tighty-currently-not-so-whities," Qwark asked, uncharacteristically compassionate, mainly from sheer exhaustion.
When Qwark set Ratchet down inside the shelter, he was chilled to the bone, a little unsteady on his feet, and his ears were ringing from the howl of the wind and the rain – but other than that, he's okay.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks, Qwark."
He gave the superhero a tired, appreciative wave, and wanders farther into the center. If you couldn't tell by looking outside, you could tell this is a hell of a storm just by how packed the place is. It's never been this crowded during a flash flood before. He had to wait in line for a shower, of course. But once he's had that and a hot meal, he feels a hundred times better, and curls up near a heating vent, where it's not exactly cozy, but definitely warm. He wraps his tail around himself and is just seconds away from drifting off into a nap when an unnerving thought wakes him back up: Is Qwark going to tell the media about this quicksand thing?
Qwark sighed, and sloughed himself and his dripping muddy everything into the shower line. This was supposed to be simple. Easy. Get some supplies in order, use his freakishly Herculean strength to hurl around some sandbags where they needed to be, smile for some cameras (especially if he could convince Ratchet or Clank to be in the photos with him, and be off before he could say 'cyclo-monkey's my uncle' (which, due to Qwarl's upbringing, was surprisingly true).
But no. Here he was, cold, tired, worn out… He'd need at least a week on Pokitaru after this was all over. He jolted awake when a squat Veldin man pushed a shower key into his hands, and he accepted the towel and soap from the attendant without fuss. No shampoo or conditioner; Veldinites were lizards and didn't exactly have hair.
Qwark stepped into the shower, thankfully warm from the water tanks circulating through the roof system and naturally heated by Veldin's sun and volcanic activity. Qwark shucked off his own jumpsuit and underwear, cleaning it as best he could. The soap was fine on his skin, but hard enough on the fabric. How Ratchet even managed to shower with his fur and no shampoo was beyond him. Eventually he gave up and hoped the PDC had spare clothing in his size, pressing the call button for his request.
Feeling utterly naked without his suit, he handed it off to volunteers washing clothes, tagging it (though, with his build, it was obvious who owned the suit). Qwark absentmindedly touched the bald spot on his head, and the bright red ring of remaining hair normally well hidden; joining the line for food.
Nobody batted an eye at Qwark, or acknowledged him any more than any of the others seeking shelter, but Qwark himself felt miserably out of place. At least the yellow scrubs fit- they were probably prison uniforms from the detention wing in the PDC. Considering the entire center was filled with only Veldin natives, prison clothing was likely all they had for someone so much larger than they.
To go from the Presidential compound the day before, to a prisoner's outfit, shoved a tray of thin looking stew and a ration block…
And yet, somehow, Qwark felt content, but couldn't put a finger on why.
Qwark balanced his tray and scanned for Ratchet, an easy enough task as he also wore bright yellow scrubs, a hole in the back slashed open for his tail. He was curled up over a heating vent, fur parted at awkward angles and mussed, probably from the soap and no access to a brush. Qwark could tell the Lombax was attempting to rest, but the coughing racking his tiny frame was clearly making it difficult. Even with the O2 mask, Ratchet inhaled enough water to make him a little sick, because instead of settling down for the nicest nap you can hope for when sheltering from a storm, he just laid there hacking his lungs up for a while. As if he weren't tired enough.
"You were pretty brave out there, Ratchet."
Qwark doubled over at hearing his own voice, hoarse from the adrenaline rush of a slog through the torrent. Ratchet didn't even open his eyes to look at him (and his horrific excuse of a carrot top); he just nodded and curled up tighter, even though he was quite stunned: Did Captain Qwark just praise his bravery? Like, actually compliment him without immediately congratulating himself on his own superior machismo? He must really be wiped out. And he ought to be, after all he's done for the plateau, which is honestly a lot more than Ratchet expected from him. When he's more awake, he'll have to thank him.
"Watch my food. I'll go get you a stim pack and something to settle that cough."
Qwark set his tray in front of Ratchet, making sure there wasn't any trash left behind.
"Oh, no thanks, I should be – " Qwark leaves just as Ratchet is faintly protesting the medical supplies. There are hundreds of people here who could probably use them a lot more. He's had worse and he should be fine after a good night's sleep But, oh well.
Qwark waded his way through the crowds to the medical supplies he'd salvaged earlier that day. It had felt like a lifetime earlier, but… had it only been a few hours? Time was a confusing mess right now (if it hadn't been to him before).
Qwark took another stim for himself, pressing the needle to his thigh and gritting his teeth; the doses were designed for Veldinites and he really should have taken two earlier in the first place. He pulled out a child's dose for Ratchet (they were by weight and an adult's would be too much at once, pride be damned), and hunted through the container for cough suppressant, finding canisters of acetylcysteine designed to be clipped into an oxygen mask, one fruit and and the other chocolate scented. He swiped both and rounded back to the heating vent on the floor, where Ratchet was still holding down the proverbial fort.
While Ratchet watched the tray through half-open eyes, he overheard some talk between the Sheriff and a few PD officers as they marched along the ranks of the refugees. Sounds like the flood waters have run as far as Asteroid City, which is pretty much on lockdown until the storms stop. The Sheriff whistles, grimly, when he hears the news. "Well, there goes the World Mining Expo, I reckon."
Ratchet sighed, knowing that the local economy is going to take a hit without the revenue from the annual miner's convention, and turns over, hearing the telltale heavy footfalls of one native Kerwanian returning.
Qwark pushed his food tray aside and slumped down next to Ratchet, exhausted.
"Stim first. Just lay still."
Qwark leaned over Ratchet, uncapped the needle end, and jammed the stim into Ratchet's thigh, getting a facefull of tail poof as Ratchet's reflexes kicked in. Ratchet did his best to hold still when Qwark delivered the medicine, but the pain of the needle prick made him flinch and his tail involuntarily whipped up to slap Qwark in the face.
"Sorry," he mumbled after a groan, but Qwark simply batted it away.
Qwark counted to five and drew out the stim, the nanites in the medication immediately cauterizing the entry wound just as they'd done for him a few minutes prior. He capped the spent stim, and flipped the attached biohazard bag around it for disposal.
"Sit up, and take out your O2 mask, so you can take the cough suppressant, Ratchet."
Qwark held out the canisters for Ratchet to pick. Ratchet weakly snatched the chocolate-scented cough medicine and fit the canister into his O2 mask. He's had the fruit-scented one and it smells like ship wax, but in the worst possible way. After a few deep breaths, the prickling pain in his chest starts to fade and he can breathe much easier, without coughing.
"It's no Meridian Grand Hotel, but there should be some prison holding cells in the detention wing of the center. It's dark and quiet, and there should be bunks and blankets. Would you rather crash there?" Qwark shook his head. When was the last time he was this compassionate?
"Yeah, let's check it out," Ratchet replied, his voice muffled by the mask as he stood up, stiffly, twisting around. "Although they might already be holding some looters from Asteroid City in there."
This turned out not to be the case, and indeed the detention wing was very quiet, and surprisingly warmer than the main hall.
'That's more like it', Ratchet thought, shaking himself out and taking a few more gulps of chocolate scented air, before removing the mask.
Ratchet took a top bunk – he always feels more secure sleeping somewhere high up – and sits down, swinging his legs over the edge and scratching behind his ear as he looks down at Qwark. (That soap was made for Veldinite skin, and too harsh for really anyone else and it's irritating him something awful. When he's alone he'll have to bathe the old-fashioned way unless he wants to lie awake in agony all night.)
"Hey, Qwark," he finally said. "Listen, I owe you one. We all do."